Epiphany
by Francis Kerst
Summary: When the ghosts from the past return to life, can Napoleon Solo change the deal, fight against a child and win?
1. Chapter 1

Epiphany

Part One

Napoleon put the phone down. The die was cast. Florence hadn't even feigned surprise. Self confident as always.

"OK, Nap. See you tomorrow in Monmouth at "The Fisher's Table", at noon, dead on. I'll book the table, and the room for you."

As usual, her use of the childish pet name had irked him. Once again he wondered how, and still more why, he continued to bear Flo's offhandedness, her quiet certainty of her hold over him without any payback on her part. Once again he had lost the fight for dominance. Once again she had forced the issue.

He sighed. He had believed the spell long ago broken, but…childhood memories are subtle and solid chains. And still there was Paul. The sad, slowly fading little face of the boy had haunted him every night lately since their sojourn in Saint Cristobal jail; in the plane, in U.N.C.L.E. hospital and, again, yesterday at home. Florence's letter was just the last warning of a long suite. With a shudder he remembered Liz' plaintive question in his dream; "What did you do with my babe?" The stern and strangely solemn voice of Waverly was still sounding in his ears: "I'll choose the children of today over the ghosts from the past". He had thought, bitterly, that for him the child of today and the ghost from the past were one and the same.

Well, the past had caught him up eventually. Maybe he should be grateful to Flo if her manipulative mind and love of provocation gave him an opportunity to reverse the deal and make up for lost time. Was there any chance? No, it was too late. He had left him behind and never looked backwards until now; it felt like it was in another world, another life. Paul was long gone. He didn't want to think about the circumstances.

He shook himself. No soul searching. That was a luxury he couldn't indulge in. He was going to see Paul again, the question was set.

Taking three days off was no problem. He'd had no Christmas vacation due to the recent Uruguay events. Things were very quiet in Head Quarters. Illya was still on medical leave…Napoleon quickly discarded the foolish idea that had just crossed his mind: to invite Illya, would it be only to enjoy the look on Flo's face when she'd see her ex-lover with an unknown man at the door of the restaurant. Could be the best way to resist her without rousing a scene. But, besides the fact Napoleon wasn't sure he wanted to resist, he strongly doubted that the man, who shunned any sign of familiarity in his best moments, would feel flattered to be invited in company with his partner's ex girlfriend. Moreover the seaside in New Jersey at the beginning of January was not a pleasant prospect, even for a supposed cold-hardened Russian. And over all, Napoleon had not the slightest intent to tell his life story, at least this part of his life story to anybody, not even his best friend. He didn't need moral support to confront a twelve-year-old boy, no he didn't; it was ridiculous.

Twenty minutes later:

"Napoleon, really! What do you want me to do with you and your cousin in a New Jersey hotel on the fourth of January? And for three days at that! No I don't need to breathe the good healthy air of the seaside; no, I don't especially appreciate the freshly caught seafood; yes, I am very busy with this old bastard Hartmann. There are still remaining issues to solve before signing the agreement. He is leaving on the 5th, the day after tomorrow if you remember. The disease is spreading, you know…unless you have already forgotten? And I promised to prepare the young Dos Santos for his new school's entrance exams. Oh, speaking of Miguel, I remind you I'm taking him out tonight to see a show. We have to be at "The House of Brazil" within the hour. I have just come home to have a shower and change clothes. Good evening."

The day after, at "The Fisher's Table":

"That lobster was excellent." Florence swallowed her last mouthful and swiftly flung back over her shoulder a long lock of hair, escaped from the barrette clipping up the median part of her thick red mane, which was threatening to dip in the spiced sauce, "This is definitely the best place for sea-food on the coast, they always manage to have fresh stuff, even in winter. I wonder how; do the fishermen still take their boats out to sea in such weather?"

Like the trained sailor he was, Napoleon was inclined to think not but politely refrained from suggesting the delicious fresh lobster in brandy sauce had probably been freshly unfrozen by the cook. Besides, Flo was not expecting an answer. She went on:

"Terrible weather, indeed, though not uncommon at this time of the year; I should be accustomed, it cannot be worse than in North Ontario, but I spent so many winters in Africa these last years, oh, speaking of Africa…" Napoleon held his breath, fearing the conversation would get back to her diggings in East Africa, the amazing results of her researches and all those long, dull stories about old bones and pre-human remains of which Florence Aramburu was never tired.

"Speaking of Africa, I forgot to mention the Morrisons are my literary agents."

"Does a scientific writer need a literary agent?" asked Napoleon, trying to show more interest than he felt.

"Not for academic works, and there won't be the same publisher anyway; actually, I am writing a book of memories."

"Already?" Napoleon smiled; younger than him by less than two years, Flo looked hardly more than twenty five.

"Well, why not? I've got through a lot of adventures doing my job; more precisely it will be a popular scientific book, interspersed with amusing stories, quizzes, drawings. It's also meant to be adapted for children in comic strips. That's why I took the kids with me this year."

Oh, I understand now!, thought Napoleon, who had been surprised by her unusual display of motherly caring.

"Albert is helping me with the writing, Suzann is doing the illustrations; she is so gifted. Both are delightful people. Extremely welcoming. In other circumstances, I'd have no scruples asking them to invite you, the house is very spacious, but we have to work and, moreover, they have got their grandchildren for the week eventually, it would be too much bother for them; they are not young, you know".

Napoleon was tired of beating around the bush; Paul's name had hardly been uttered twice until then and by him. Flo was evading the matter, visibly. Well, he could dance too, but to his own music.

"I never meant to bother your friends, Flo; I am grateful to you for the opportunity you offer me so kindly but now the game is between Paul and me. I intended to meet him at the hotel, of course."

Florence raised her glass of wine by the window and seemed to admire its pale amber colour and its glittering in the light.

"I wish you good luck, Lee," she said pensively, "the boy is not easy to get at; I didn't know how he would take it, so I deemed it better not to tell him anything about your possible presence."

Napoleon swallowed dry and didn't comment.

She took a sip of her drink. "But, luckily he likes the twins, they get along quite well, that's why the grandparents didn't object to my taking him with me for two weeks."

Not very logically she added: "I know you don't approve of my way of life, Napoleon, but I can tell you my kids are happy," For a short while a veil of sadness softened her neatly carved features. "I never was a full time mother, not even a part time one and couldn't; I am a professional, Napoleon, as you are." She cast him her best crooked smile. "But, fortunately, as I told you once, my mother, at least, is a very professional mother."

Napoleon didn't think she remembered; he fought a pang of absurd tenderness. "Who am I to give you lessons, Flo? You did more than I ever tried."

* * *

Eventually the idea of taking the boy to the hotel was discarded and Flo phoned her friends. They were delighted, absolutely delighted, to make acquaintance of Flo's cousin who was just in town on business.

The Morrisons' house was far from the center and from the coast, in a pleasant residential resort. It was an old, late nineteenth century stone building, surrounded by a large and well kept garden, now covered with snow. Everything there spoke of old money and European snobbery. It strongly reminded Napoleon of his own grandparents, on his mother's side. The Maynards would have liked the place.

Napoleon was admiring the pseudo classical facade when a mocking laugh alerted him. Too late. He jerked and briskly brushed his neck where something wet, soft and very cold had hit him: a snow ball! He turned around just in time to see a small brown head with short pigtails lunging to cover behind a thick bush of carved boxwood. A boy's voice, coming from nowhere, scolded: "Oh, Lucy, you didn't warn; that's not fair".

"Hi, Charlie," hailed Flo, "where are you?"

"Here!"

"Where's here?"

"Here, in the kennel!"

Flo and Napoleon turned at the same time towards the majestic steps under which a shelter had been spared, large enough for two dogs of good size. Actually, a dog was just coming out from it, wagging its tail in the friendliest manner: a kind of terrier of uncertain breed, mostly white and positively smiling.

"First time I saw a dog smiling," thought Napoleon idly. Florence bent down to pat its head, as a small boy of about eight crawled out and stood up.

"Hi," said the boy, rather ceremoniously, "I am Charles Morrison and he is Dandy".

"Hi, Charlie," replied Napoleon with good humour, "are you sure it's Dandy?"

The boy frowned. "Of course, I'm sure; it's my grandmother's dog."

"Oh," said Napoleon lightly, I thought it was Snoopy."

Charlie was clearly not amused. "I've already heard that more than once. Please, don't ask where Linus is."

Florence intervened. "Be nice, Lee, they are teased enough at school,"

"By the way," cut in the boy, in the same formal style, "Who are you? You haven't introduced yourself."

"My apologies, young man, I am Napoleon, Florence's friend..."

The kid cast him a suspicious look and seemed on the point of replying but at the same instant a clear and joyful voice rang out from behind the grown ups:

"Hello, Napoleon, come and kiss your Josephine!"

Napoleon turned around, grinning, and faced a small but faithful look-alike of Flo, who was briskly stamping on the snowy ground with her bright red pony tail swaying like a flag or a flame in the frosty breeze.

"Hello, Lyn, I notice you improved your knowledge of European history."

The girl ran to him and kissed him impetuously. «I am very good at history. Actually, I am very good at everything."

Napoleon laughed. "Flo, you've produced a monster!"

Florence looked pleased; "Two monsters, wait till you meet Jack!"

"How is he doing since last summer?"

"Fine; he's discovered the Encyclopedia Britannica I had offered to Mum for his birthday and, since then, he's worming his way throughout it, from Antiquity to Zoology with a long stop at Cosmology.

"I read it too," protested Lyn,

"OK, OK, I've begotten two geniuses! But Lyn is the literary type; she is writing a novel."

"Oh, really? Cute girl, what's it about?"

"From the little I was allowed to read, it looks like a shameless and rather successful plagiary of Enid Blyton."

"Well, that's not so bad for a ten year old writer."

But Evelyn was not there anymore to enjoy the compliment. She was half bickering, half frolicking with "Two-Pig-Tails" who had sneaked from her bush shelter and the two girls, one chasing the other, dashed up the stairs to the front door. The adults followed.

To Napoleon's slightly confused mind, the next hour was spent in a hubbub of welcome greetings, small talk, children's racket, dog yelping and pressing invitations to visit the place. The house was magnificent, the snowy landscape all around magical, the people inside absolutely charming and the current literary project very promising. When the turmoil had abated, it was tea time and Paul was still nowhere to be seen.

And suddenly, he was there, under the bare branches of the maple trees, at the bottom of the garden, where Napoleon had sought refuge. He was standing very upright, very alert, as a sentinel posted at the vanguard, watching the movement of the enemy.

Napoleon felt uncharacteristically deprived of words. "Good evening, Paul."

"Good evening, sir," replied Paul politely.

"Those were the very words I heard from you, last time we met, three years ago."

"I am afraid I have no memory of it," stated the boy.

"What is that you don't remember: our last meeting or my existence?"

"Both."

Of course, you've provided him the perfect weapon and he used it. Brown amber eyes clinging with light hazel eyes. Clash of blades. Flying sparks. Napoleon's tactical yielding..

"I have to admit three years, or rather two years and a half, since it was in summer, is quite a long wait but I remind you I have no access to your grandparents' house, Paul, and Vicky herself was banned after that excursion."

Paul leant on a low branch of a nearby tree with affected nonchalance.

"Why do you feel obliged to give me explanations? I don't ask you to justify yourself; you don't owe me anything."

"You think I don't owe you anything! That meaning, I suppose, you don't expect me to give you anything. And in return you don't acknowledge me! Is that how you see our relationship?

"Do we have a relationship?"

Sometimes, it's difficult to distinguish between anger, humiliation and sheer misery. Napoleon opted for anger.

"Don't play the fool with me, lad; kids with haughty attitudes don't impress me. I have no time or patience for charades. You and I never had much time to talk freely but at least we both know one thing - I am your father and you are my son."

"I don't know."

"What?"

"I don't know," repeated the boy thoughtfully, "I am not sure of it; are you?"

This was too much. Unable to articulate a word and painfully conscious he had lost a critical match, Napoleon turned his back to the offender and was thinking of a retreat with what was left of his dignity when a boy's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Hi, Napoleon! Don't run!

Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Napoleon was somehow relieved to recognize the shaggy head and the freckled face of Lynn's brother. Jack was exiting a garden hut nearby, from which he had apparently observed the scene and listened to the exchange.

"Hi, Jack, you spying?"

"I was trying to make a fresh Christmas wreath for the frond door; the old one's losing its needles." He smiled broadly and brandished his artwork with a theatrical gesture of pride. "And I didn't want to disturb your little filial confrontation."

"Filial confrontation! Jack, please don't start speaking like Charlie."

"Oh, you noticed Charlie speaks like a book? Everybody is awfully well read in this house, except Lucy who's a goose and a prat." He cast a side glance to his friend, "and, speaking of prats…"

Paul growled. "Let it drop, Jack."

"No way, little brother. Napoleon is family for me; and even more so for you. Don't give us this "I am not sure you are my father…; even your bitch of a grandmother doesn't believe it."

"Let my grandmother alone, and don't take your superior airs with me. And I am not your brother."

Jack laughed. "Fortunately you aren't! A sister like Lyn and a brother like you would be enough to bring me to the loony bin."

In the meantime Napoleon had recovered his composure.

"You all look like a bunch of loonies to me, dog included."

"What about the dog?" Jack's voice sounded perplexed.

"He smiles."

"Dandy?"

"Yes, Dandy the aptly named, he smiles, smugly."

"I didn't notice."

"You never notice anything outside your books," groaned Paul.

"Me? That's rich, coming from somebody who is always abstracted and day dreaming!" He screwed up his nose, "and you noticed Dandy smiling? Well, that will be at least one thing you agree with your father!"

Paul chuckled, rather nervously, but the ice wall seemed have thawed somehow. He turned towards Napoleon.

"Finally, what did you come for?"

"Simply, to spend the holidays with an old friend of mine and, possibly, my son; something I've had very little opportunity to do until now."

Paul ignored the last comment. "Which holidays? Christmas is past."

"Yes, I was abroad for Christmas, but there is still the sixth of January, Kings' day, Epiphany; seems appropriate for a mutual discovery reunion."

Paul laughed softly and looked uncertain but his stance appeared more relaxed than any time before.

"I am not the infant Jesus."

Jack cut in: "Whatever the pretext, I am quite in favour of a celebration, especially if the Magi don't forget to bring presents."

"I'll see about it," said Napoleon, amused by the boy's rather unsubtle manipulation that strongly reminded him of his mother. "Today is the fourth, I need one day for the preparation, we could arrange a little party for tomorrow night."

"Geez! I volunteer for helping the preparation!" Jack proposed with unhidden enthusiasm, "Christmas was very quiet; the Morrisons firmly believe in "the true meaning of Christmas"; you see the kind: nothing commercial, no costly gifts, plain food, blessings before the meals and carols the rest of the time, Peace to all good willed people on earth..." He grimaced.

"And you don't agree?"

"Well..." Jack looked a little embarrassed, "I don't object exactly; I'd just like to have a little more fun and to get my presents!"

"I rather liked the Christmas eve celebration," interjected Paul; "carols, blessings and all, I don't need costly gifts."

"Of course! with your rich grandparents, you have everything you want."

"I wouldn't say that" uttered Paul flatly. A moment of silence followed. The ice wall was back. Napoleon didn't try to break it through. There would be other opportunities, he hoped.

Later in the day, having reentered the house and the company of adults, he had no difficulty in selling his plan (or rather Jack's plan) for a special belated Christmas/Kings' day party with music and costumes; more exactly Jack had no difficulty in convincing his mother and "Auntie Suzie" to fulfill his wishes and to host the scenery in the house instead of the hotel. He was resolute to be the manager of the show and to make a success of it. Napoleon was less enthusiastic. He was getting mixed feelings about the whole thing; Jack's intervention had the invaluable advantage of saving him from having to give awkward explanations about his relations with Paul to complete strangers; on the other hand, he sensed the undertaking was escaping his control and had strong doubts about the effect that could be expected from such a masquerade on his son's reserved temper and too obvious wary disposition. The little, quiet, "getting to know you" meeting in intimacy he had in mind at the beginning had been turned into a public exhibition and he certainly was not in the mood for it.

Back to the hotel, without Flo who was staying with her friends (so, he had been spared the bother to evade a seduction scene, he thought ironically), he tried to fight his worry by spending a while at the bar, vaguely hoping to be distracted from his thoughts by some pleasant and undemanding female companionship but had to admit it was not his lucky day; there were three customers, two businessmen from the seafood industry celebrating the happy conclusion of a profitable contract and a middle aged woman of dubious attractiveness and poor conversation who had just ditched her car on her way back home after a visit to an elderly cousin. After a few polite words of comfort to the distressed lady and a light snack, Napoleon decided there was nothing else to do but go to bed and avoid thinking.

Two hours later he was still awake and brooding.

Paul had been taken from him; sure…A twenty year old father cannot stand in for a mother; maybe…The in-laws were powerful and intractable; yes indeed…He had done his patriotic duty by volunteering for Korea…At this, Napoleon couldn't help laughing aloud. How easy to cover his fear with the mask of courage! The risks of war opposed to the burden of fatherhood? If so, he had paid for this choice at the highest price. Later there had been U.N.C.L.E. and its requirements. It was worth the loss; he always thought it was, but had he done everything possible to see the boy, at least from time to time, to keep in touch?

No, he hadn't and this was his punishment. The stream of his thoughts was interrupted by the bleeping of his communicator.

"Napoleon?"

"Mmmwww? It's past midnight and I am supposed to be off duty."

"We are never off duty."

"Sadly true, what do you want from me?"

"You don't ask me what major threat to the world peace demands your personal involvement?"

"The tone of your voice tells me there is none."

"Optimistic, as ever; I am coming with Hartmann."

At that, Napoleon jumped to his feet.

"That's a really sick joke, Kuryakin!"

"There is nothing to joke about. I am coming with Hartmann, with the sole purpose of taking a pint of good red blood from you."

"I should have known Hartmann was a vampire. A pint, you say?"

"Well, maybe a little less, but more than was taken from you in the hospital."

"What for?"

"Seemingly, a vaccine."

"???"

"You appeared to be immune to the contagion, in Uruguay."

"So were Dos Santos and Alvarez."

"Exact, so they are also required to give blood. Miguel has already been done."

"But why the emergency? I can go to any medical facility and you will get the samples within two or three days."

"Too long a wait; Hartmann was expected in San Cristobal tomorrow and has already had to postpone his trip of two days but he cannot delay his leaving longer; moreover he must do his testing on fresh blood".

"That confirms my suspicion: Hartmann is a vampire."

"This is not a matter for fun, Napoleon; must I remind you we are partly responsible of the epidemic?"

Napoleon didn't need to be reminded of it; his feelings of guilt were still raw and only too vivid in his mind. Illya was right, of course; there was no point in discussing the necessity of Hartmann's presence: Waverly's orders. But the coming of the ex Nazi scientist was the last blow of a long series. Even Illya's coming was not welcome in the situation he was in at the moment, and he wondered how he could have contemplated inviting him.

A meeting at the hotel was scheduled for the next morning but an uncertainty was hanging over the planes timetable because of the weather. Reluctantly, and fervently hoping it wouldn't be useful, Napoleon gave the address of the Morrissons where he had to be in the afternoon. To cancel the party now was unthinkable. As for himself, there was a limit to the amount of ridicule he was able to bear, and Napoleon had the clear impression that Paul's tolerance threshold to foolishness was pretty low. It was disturbing, and hurtful to measure how much he was frightened to lose the respect of a child he hardly knew and had tried so hard to forget.

Napoleon opened the window to let in an icy draught. He stayed there a long time. It wasn't snowing any more but it was very cold. He couldn't see anything outside. The night was very dark; no light anywhere; no stars were shining in the sky. Nothing to do. He shut the window and went to bed.

End of Part One


	2. Chapter 2

EPIPHANY, CHAPTER TWO

Dawn and Florence surprised him still in bed, the former by a ray of light through the window, the latter by knocking at the door.

"Hullo, Napoleon, what are you doing wallowing under your blankets in this unhealthy cubicle at nine in the morning?"

Napoleon cast a reluctant glance at the bedside clock and groaned:

"Damn you, Flo! Have you lost all notion of time? It's hardly more than ten past eight!"

"Well, it got you out of bed, didn't it? World belongs to the early riser," asserted the young redhead with her usual cheek, when he opened the door to a pink nosed Flo and a cheerful Jack.

"Spare me these awful clichés; it doesn't suit you."

"Spare me these profanities, Napoleon; how dare you say "damn you" to a lady?"

"And since when were you a lady, my dear cousin?"

"Since I became a mother," retorted Flo with a quick nod at Jack.

"Hardly," grumbled Napoleon indistinctly.

But Flo's ears were as sharp as her mind. "More than you a father, my dear cousin!" There was nothing to reply to this and Napoleon gave up.

"What are you here for?"

" Money, love, I need money to buy all the stuff for the party: fancy food, decorations, costumes..."

"Gifts!" cut in Jack; "I want my chosen gifts! We had only rubbish at Christmas, thanks to the Morrisons' moral principles."

"I told you they will be at Grandma's place," scolded his mother, "next week."

"That's not the same! I want to find something under the Christmas tree like the other children," protested Jack; "I ordered records from Grandma; now I want a record player. And Lyn wants a watch and a fountain pen. And Paul wants a guitar. I don't know about the others."

Napoleon smirked. "What a spoiled brat! "And your mother such a professional!" Well, the result is not a success, my poor Florence." Then he bit his lower lip; education was not a wise topic to raise in the present context.

Flo looked absolutely unfazed. "Your poor Florence is trying to help set up the party for you, and Jack is your manager; everything has its price and you've already accepted the deal, I was told: we do the job and you pay. Don't worry; "I'll make sure it's not too dear."

Napoleon was somehow relieved the discussion had come back to solid ground. "Did I complain about money? I think my monthly budget can stand the expense."

Jack brightened, "Thanks, Uncle Napoleon!"

Things seemed to turn out all right eventually; Florence and Jack had willingly taken all the preparations for the stupid party in their hands (Napoleon was still wondering how he could have let himself be coaxed into this nonsense but so what? There was nothing he could do at this point) and thus, he had no explanation to give about Kuryakin's and the damned Hartmann's impending arrival; he would wait for them a couple of hours, deliver the vampire his pint of fresh blood and see them away even before Florence had come back with her purchases; there was just enough time for him to have a luxurious bath and a copious breakfast to make up for the meager snack of the previous night (he intended to skip the lunch in anticipation of the dinner feast).

Two hours later he was still waiting in the hotel lounge, impatiently flipping through the latest magazines with hardly a glance at even the most alluring inner page pin-ups, when he heard the fateful bleeping.

"Hi! Napoleon? We are late."

"That, I noticed!"

Illya sighed heavily and replied with an exasperating tone of affected tolerance: "I mean we'll come later in the afternoon; we have been delayed by the belated arrival of the Uruguayan delegation and Hartmann is bound to attend the meeting."

Napoleon frowned deeply, "You mean you've no idea when you'll arrive?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But that won't do! I'm not free in the afternoon; I've been invited by my cousin's friends to a, hum, family celebration; I told you so last night..."

"I am very sorry, Napoleon, but we can't do it any other way and you should be the first to understand that; duty calls and Waverly commands. Where has your professional conscience gone?"

"On vacation!" grumbled Napoleon. Of course he could only agree with Illya but the many frustrations of the past two weeks had taken their toll upon him and he was feeling the need to let out a little temper."

"Childish!" cut his partner severely. He waited for a reply that didn't come. "Really, Napoleon, that's much ado about nothing, you're not obliged to stay at the hotel; go to your friends' place as planned and have fun since it's all that you are interested in at the moment, apparently. We'll be there some time in the late afternoon for a brief "in-and-out", and we'll try not to disturb your family celebration too much."

"Great! And what explanation I am going to give for your little "in-and-out?"

"I've never known you short of explanations before, Napoleon. Suppose you tried the truth, for a change?"

Solo wasn't ready to tell his partner the whole story about his lost and retrieved son and their troubled relationship, so he said nothing and gave the Morrisons' address, not without some feeling of apprehension.

Flo was back for lunch time; she has been fast and efficient, as always. She was one of these annoying people who manage to get 48 hours work done within a 24 hour day when others in the same time, can hardly use 8 out of 12 profitably. Not for the first time Napoleon rejoiced that he hadn't married her. She had found a provider able to supply, at the last moment, a buffet for a dozen and bought the right gifts for everybody, no thanks to Jack's interferences.

They didn't linger at table in spite of a tempting choice of dishes. The weather was fast worsening; it was snowing again, hard and thick, and a storm was forecast in the next few hours. Actually, it hit earlier than expected. On the way back to the Morrisons' place, the light van fought bravely against hostile whirlwinds and icy spots along the winding road. Eventually they were safe and warm inside the hospitable old mansion, greeted by joyful yaps and yelps, of which Dandy was mostly innocent.

The rest of the afternoon was spent laying out the buffet and decorating the large hall and the reception rooms. To Napoleon's relief, the idea of a masquerade had been dismissed for lack of time and convenient outfits. The adults contented themselves with good fare and eclectic conversation while the children were romping about. Jack had teasingly suggested they'd replay their own version of Charlie Brown's Christmas, to the great displeasure of a very much "not amused" Charlie Morrison. Discord was raising her ugly head when Mrs Morrison's proposal of a treasure hunt restored peace and amity among the little folk. It was quickly and cleverly arranged by Flo and the old lady. Lyn and Lucy had a fight over their gifts ("why do you want a fountain pen?" asked Lyn to a fuming Lucy, "You cannot even write your name!") but, as a whole, the party went smoothly and pleasantly for the attendees, except the two persons primarily concerned. Paul looked somehow distracted and took little part in the preparations or the hunt. His gift, a walkie-talkie instead of a guitar, seemed to please him though, and he went so far as asking his father for advice. Then he sneaked away with Jack to try the new device.

Napoleon had to summon up all his professional cool to fight down the feeling of growing impatience and exasperation which was creeping over him while hours passed and Kuryakin didn't show. He hadn't warned his hosts of their possible arrival; the snowstorm outside was decidedly turning to tempest and he fervently hoped that the intruders' flight had been postponed.

Wrong guess! Just as he was starting to enjoy the Morrisons' humorous tale of their - long past - travels, as young students in ethnology throughout the wilderness in Patagonia (one of the rare spots of the globe he had never set foot on), the bell rang.

Lyn and Lucy, who were again brawling on the couch stopped suddenly and rushed to the corridor, one chasing the other with strident Indian war cries. Flo ran after them and Napoleon followed, heart clutched by a somber foreboding.

Lyn was the first to the door. She opened it and jumped aside, stunned. Lucy screamed. Florence and Napoleon froze and stayed where they were: right in the doorway stood, dark and glowing, a very real red-skinned Indian boy.

Just behind, in the shadow, the tall figure of Hartmann was looming, sinister.

"Where is Kuryakin?" Solo asked brusquely, not attempting an explanation.

"Who is Kuryakin?" Florence echoed after a short while. Napoleon ignored her.

"Stuck in the car, down the hill," said the boy, placidly, "we skidded off in a loop and ditched the old buggy in the ravine."

"What! You mean he's trapped? Wounded?" Napoleon was trying to gather his Spanish that had never been really fluent.

"Nobody was wounded," declared Hartmann, "we were driving slowly and the slope was gentle; the car has simply been stopped by nearby trees, not overturned".

"So, why is he staying in the car?"

Miguel laughed lightly, to Napoleon's sheer annoyance. "He was the first to get out after the crash, too fast; there was ice under the snow: he sprained his ankle."

"May we come in, at last?" Hartmann cut in, irritably, "or do you intend to leave us on the doorstep? We are tired and frozen to the bone. I thought you were expecting us."

Not the boy, in any case, thought Napoleon, but it was not the point and he swiveled round to let the two men in. Flo stared at them, speechless for once.

"Who are these people?" asked Lucy in her highest pitched tone. Miss "Two-pig-tails" sounded indignant, "We weren't expecting them, that's for sure; I'm going to warn Granny." She dashed off. Lyn stayed by her mother, looking amused and interested.

Flo had recovered her voice, eventually. "Napoleon, I think you'll have a lot of things to explain." She turned towards the newcomers: "Please, come through to the hall and make yourselves comfortable; I'm just a guest here but I'm quite certain my friends wouldn't leave anybody outside in a snow storm."

"Very kind of you," said the old gentleman with a stiff bow, German style, "truly sorry to disturb you amid a friends' reunion. We won't stay more than strictly necessary for what we have to do, as long as the weather allows it."

Florence smiled graciously and waved them to the hatstands. "I assume you must have very serious things to discuss with Mr Solo for braving a tempest to come here to this remote country place and meet him in person."

"Yes, important business deals to arrange, changes made at the last moment, with papers that have to be signed before my leaving the country tomorrow," explained Hartman, reverting to his usual, soft spoken, cultured British language. "There are affairs which can only be treated face to face, you know..."

"I see, I see." agreed Florence who, assuredly, didn't see a fig in this pot of tar.

"Seems my boss disavowed a deal I'd made." added Napoleon, grumpily.

"And your own signature is needed?" asked the young woman with evident disbelief.

"I have, uh, big personal investments in this affair," Napoleon gestured impatiently, "but at the moment, there is a case of emergency, if you don't mind: my partner, uh, colleague, is waiting for rescue in a wrecked car miles away from here and you wouldn't let him freeze to death during the night, would you?"

Miguel looked offended. "Why do you think we are here?"

I certainly wonder why you are here, thought Napoleon who couldn't figure any plausible reason for the boy's taking part in the trip.

"I want to go back and help Illya as soon as possible."

"Not before we have a rest and something hot to drink, objected the old man; I'm exhausted, frozen and thirsty."

"We don't need you," retorted Miguel belligerently, "I'm ready to go immediately with anybody with a car and a map."

"The van I've rented is equipped for the weather," indicated Flo, "but we owe at least a few words of explanation to the Morrisons. I fear your story is long and complicated. If only you hadn't said you were expected...Lucy heard it, unfortunately."

"Me too!" Carolyn didn't want to be ignored, "but I'm good at keeping secrets."

"No way to keep anything secret with Lucy in the confidence, just try to be reasonably credible...and don't forget you owe an explanation to me too."

So they had to follow the line of Hartmann's first improvisation: an important amendment to a big contract of import-export had to be signed by one of the main investors (Napoleon) before the exporter (Hartmann) left the US for another capital appointment in Brazil.

Fortunately this story didn't contradict Napoleon's previous introduction as a travelling businessman working for a world-wide company too much. Yet Florence frowned at the tale. Without being given precise information, she had some knowledge of her cousin's real occupation. But Napoleon didn't doubt her cooperation: in spite of all her shortcomings, the young woman still had the same loyalty towards him that he had towards her; that was the superiority of childhood friendships, even when they had later wandered into wayward paths. She would play by the rules. And so would Lyn.

As for the Morrisons, they couldn't care less. The only thing they had in mind was the comfort of their unexpected guests, just escaped from the tempest...They were dismayed to hear that another castaway had been left in a wrecked car, poor lamb lost in the wilderness of the New Jersey coast! Of course a rescue expedition has to be launched as quickly as possible. Just the time to fill a bag with a change of clothes, cold food and hot drinks in thermos bottles. Luckily, the snow had receded somewhat when they moved off and the wind, although still strong, had abated a little. The layer of white powder on the ground was not thick enough to forbid a properly equipped vehicle to run.

That was how, within barely more than half an hour, an impatient Napoleon and a grim Hartmann (who had hardly been awarded the time to swallow a cup of tepid lemon tea instead of the nice mug of hot brandy grog he was longing for) were speeding dangerously on a narrow, slippery, and wind-beaten country road at dusk. The drive was short, fortunately, while the walk to the house from the same point had taken two hours of strenuous plodding in the soft sticky snow. The Morrisons' house (Charlie would have said mansion and actually it was the last remains of a much larger and richer estate) stood, solemn and isolated at the top of a round, cow dung-shaped hill surrounded by woods and fields. For a place relatively close to the sea shore, it was still a quiet and empty spot in an otherwise busy and touristic area. There was little chance that, with such weather, the damaged car and his temporarily disabled driver would have been rescued by wandering good Samaritans.

The really worrying thing, however, was the fact that Illya hadn't used his communicator. Probably it had been lost in the young man's fall…though, not being able to retrieve a metallic pen sunk in a shallow layer of soft virgin snow was not Illya-like at all. Napoleon wondered if the nifty device was as waterproof as it was supposed to be.

Until this moment the silence in the car had been ponderous. As unpleasant as it felt, it was about time to talk with Hartmann. Napoleon engaged the conversation most innocuously.

"How did you get a plane eventually? I thought all the flights had been cancelled early in the afternoon."

"We didn't get a plane, replied Hartmann; we went by train."

"Ah! Good idea."

"No; there were several unexplained technical incidents. That's why we were so late," went on Hartmann pitylessly; your trains are very slow at the best of times anyway."

Napoleon was piqued. "Are trains faster in Uruguay?"

"In Uruguay no, but in Germany yes." The bastard was unyielding. "Your industrial infrastructure is prehistoric."

"Sure, retorted the American, infuriated; we aren't accustomed to modernising our industry through wars and destruction!" He forced himself to breathe deeply. "Let's drop this. I don't care to argue about triffles. I want more useful information. First: What is the kid doing here with you? He ought to be at school."

"Schools aren't open yet, the Christmas vacations will last two more days, I was told. You should know that better than I do." The old man hesitated. "And there was a curious incident yesterday…The boy had been allowed to go out on his own in the vicinity of U.N.C.L.E. HQ and he came back breathless and very upset, saying he had just escaped being abducted by unknown people in a big black car."

"Uh?"

"So your colleague decided to take Miguel with him for the boy's safety."

"U.N.C.L.E. 's rooms are not safe enough?"

Hartmann shrugged. "You should ask your friend. I guess there was a shortage of U.N.C.L.E secured apartments with the Uruguayan delegation and others coming to New York at the same time for the medical symposium."

"I see."

"Moreover, I think the school chosen for Miguel by the U.N.C.L.E welfare bureau is situated in Cape May, not far from here, so we could drop the kid there on our trip back."

Everything sounded perfectly logical and justified. But Napoleon didn't know what to think about the kidnap attempt alleged by Miguel. How could he trust the words of a guy who claimed to have mystic conversations with heavenly beings? And who had so clearly showed his, humm… interest in a certain blond Russian's company? There was a glitch somewhere and Napoleon didn't like that at all." He went on:

"Why didn't my partner use his communicator to alert me after his accident?"

Hartmann looked baffled. "What is a communicator?".

"Never mind." Napoleon pricked up his ears suddenly and made a forbidding gesture with his free hand. "Shut up!"

"Eh, wait...Be polite, young man! I was not the one speaking, you were. What's the matter?"

"Just keep silent." Frowning, he listened intently, trying to distinguish the sound that had caught his attention from the many noises of the car. It had been a feeble, muffled sound, followed by a rattling noise. But there was nothing else to hear now other than the roaring of the motor, the seats' suspensions squeaking (it was an old van) and the constant rolling to and fro of various items, not attached, in the rear behind the separation curtain (mainly a tool box and cardboard containers, the remains of the party's preparatives) Could it be that some rodent had sneaked in the vehicle through the backdoor, left unclosed? Napoleon made a mental note to check it as soon as they'd reached the wrecked car's location on the road.

Then the front wheels slid on an icy spot and he barely managed to straighten up the steering, which brought his attention back to the driving.

A few minutes later, he caught sight of the car, rather far away at the bottom of a long slope, partly hidden by a group of thick bushes that had stopped its course. Obviously the driver had tried to keep control and almost succeeded. It was a miracle that he had avoided rolling over all the way down. Nothing to be seen around. There was something unnatural in the silence and peace of the surroundings. All tracks, of foot prints as of wheels, had already been erased by fresh layers of snow. He couldn't see anything else than the car's roof and a bit of the hood, and not distinctly because of the fast upcoming dimness, that had turned the empty whiteness spread everywhere to blue. Napoleon slowed down to minimum and put on the powerful fog lamps but the range was too short, then the high intensity head lamps with no better results. And no answer from the car. Illya should have heard the arrival of the van from afar, seen the lights and hailed them, or used a flash-light to signal his presence. Napoleon's stomach lurched.

Hartmann himself looked worried.

"Something's wrong," he grumbled. "pull over."

"Can't stop here, the road's not wide enough," Napoleon cut shortly.

He had to drive a little more, till he found a space to park in a dirt lane leading to an old barn. Then, grapping the backpack full of provisions, he rushed out, quickly followed by Hartmann carrying his medical bag, neither of them bothering to lock the door or remove the ignition key.

The way back to the point from which they had seen the car took a few minutes of clumsy jogging along in the snow and felt like hours to Napoleon. In spite of his hurry, he had to be more cautious while getting down the slope.

He had guessed right: the car was empty, and there were evident signs of a struggle; not in the car or on the snowy ground, but amid the bushes: many small branches were twisted and torn and he picked up a broken flashlight with blood stains on it. No communicator though.

So Kuryakin had been caught by surprise and abducted. But by whom and why? They were not on assignment (at least not their usual, dangerous kind of assignments); things had been rather quiet at U.N.C.L.E since their return from Uruguay, except...Napoleon almost started; the attempted kidnapping of young Miguel! The boy had been in the car, with Illya and Hartmann. If they had been followed...If their pursuers, whoever they were, had arrived too late on the accident spot and had found only Illya, unsuspecting and incapacitated...

Napoleon turned to face Hartmann briskly and stared at him. The old man was thoughtful and, it seemed, slightly embarrassed.

"Yes," he said simply, "I may be concerned, though I am not sure about what...I don't lack enemies, you know..." He smirked; "and they don't all date from twenty years ago."

Before Napoleon could utter the biting retort he had on the tip of his tongue (something along the line of how unfortunate it was they didn't reach their goal twenty years ago) the most unexpected sounds, in this silent and solitary night, were heard in the distance: shrill barks and shrieks of terror, far away but very distinct; then two, three gun shots, followed by a short silence and renewed barks.

Without a word, the two men turned round and started to climb up the slope to the road above, but wading uphill through a soft powder snow is not the easiest of exercises, especially when you are loaded with a big medical bag and a heavy backpack, full of comfort food, changes of clothes and waterproof shoes.

Half way Hartman fell; gritting his teeth, Napoleon helped him up.

"Don't tell me you've sprained your ankle!"

"Don't think so," mumbled the old man, "must be just twisted."

He grimaced and strangled a cry of pain; for the first time since they had met, he looked what he was: a bitter, lonely old man, worn out and tired. Napoleon hardened himself against his first move of pity; he didn't want to feel compassion towards Hartmann, of all people; he was a war criminal, wasn't he?

"So, stay here and switch off your lamp; don't know what's going on up there but it's better not to be spotted."

"I'm armed," said the man, and, from an outer pocket of his medical bag, he pulled what looked like a woman's purse pistol. Napoleon raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

"Try not to shoot a bullet in your foot, man." And he seized his U.N.C.L.E. handgun.

The whole time he had been hearing the same shrill barks; there was something familiar in this bark and it made him queasy. Just as he was reaching the top of the slope and stepping on the road, a fluffy little thing zoomed out of the dark and crashed onto his legs. Even before he had picked it up and lifted it at eyes height, he knew what it was: Dandy!

"What are you doing here? What are you goddamned doing here?" He couldn't help asking, as if the pet had had the capacity to answer. Though in his own way he did just that: exhaling a woof of relief, the little dog nudged him, nestled his head in the hollow of Napoleon's neck and stayed put there, shaking in all his limbs.

Napoleon was beginning to guess and he was scared. After a while Hartmann joined him, heavily limping but able to walk, apparently. He was breathless and nervous.

"What's this animal? It seems to know you. Were the gunshots aimed at it? And whose were all the shrieks? His master's?"

With an impatient gesture Napoleon stopped his ramblings. "Shut up for God's sake, somebody's coming."

The boy was running faster in the snow than the men could have. All of a sudden he was caught in the light of the flashlight that Hartmann had put on again in spite of Solo's orders. With a wrenching heart, Napoleon recognized Jack's face, haggard; the boy's usually playful features were torn with sheer panic.

"Help! The men over there, they fired at us, they tried to kill us!" He was shaking as much as the dog. Napoleon steadied him by gripping his shoulder with his free hand. Only then did the kid seem to recognize him and calmed down a little.

"Oh, please, we didn't do anything wrong; we were just running after Dandy: he had run away from the van when you stopped, and those men came out from the barn, and they wanted to force us to go inside with them…"

"What the hell were you doing with the dog in the van?" growled Hartmann.

"Just playing hide and seek with the walkie-talkie, it was just for fun; we didn't mean anything wrong…"

"Where is Paul?" cut in Napoleon, shortly.

Jack started to cry. "With them! They caught him; I ran away and they fired at me!"

"Did they fire at Paul?" insisted Napoleon, dropping the little dog and retrieving the gun he had put back in its holster a while before.

"No." Jack hesitated, "I don't think so; I heard one of them telling the others not to shoot. But I was running, I didn't look backwards…"

"Of course," commented Hartmann, who had recovered his composure completely; He, I mean the leader, didn't want to alert us."

"**Us**? What the fuck?"

"I'd bet anything they want **me**, not your friend or the boy; they came back for **me**, because they were sure I would always come to the rescue of a wounded man."

Napoleon was too worried to laugh at this display of self-satisfaction. "It's no time for explanation; I'm going to the barn. You both stay here."

"No. I'll come with you." Hartmann's tone was definitive.

"Don't be silly, you'd only hinder me. And somebody has to take care of the kid."

He's no longer at risk," Hartmann snorted, "they've enough hostages for what they want. A third one would only be a burden for them."

Napoleon didn't want to waste more time discussing. He let the stubborn old fool follow him, far behind, still limping . Thank God he'd put away his ridiculous girlish pistol.

"I don't need it anyway, they are far away now."

This assertion was proven right when they reached the area of the barn, approaching with the utmost caution. The building was dark and silent; there were visible wheel tracks going from the yard to the main road and even Dandy, who had chosen to stick close to Napoleon, didn't show any fear while sniffing the surroundings.

Jack too had followed from afar eventually, though with more apprehension. After a while he felt reassured somehow and came closer. All three went to the van, still in the same place. They stood there, staring at the vehicle: the four tyres had been gashed flat.

"I should have foreseen that," said Hartmann thoughtfully. He didn't seem to be speaking only of the sabotage.

"Why?" replied Napoleon irritably, are they after you or aren't they? If they were waiting for you and they had observed our arrival, why would they clear off without even trying to take hold of you?"

"I can't answer with certainty," Hartmann spoke slowly. "They were expecting me alone, or maybe with Dos Santos, or some good-will helper from the neighbourhood, not two kids, a dog and an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

"They don't know who or what I am."

"Don't presume. You don't know what they know."

That was only too true. Napoleon decided to postpone the explanations for later. The only thing he knew for certain was that Paul and Illya were currently prisoners and probably hostages, but given the circumstances, not too far… not yet.

He pulled his communicator from the inner pocket of his jacket. "Open Channel D. Napoleon Solo here."

End of Chapter Two

14


	3. Chapter 3

Epiphany, Chapter Three

"I told you they were after me; you didn't believe me when I told you so!" Hartmann sounded exasperated, visibly on edge, without any of the aristocratic aloofness he usually displayed.

Eventually rescued and brought back home in the Jeep of a local U.N.C.L.E. correspondent, they were now all reunited in the spacious sojourn of the Morrisons, amid the scattered remains of the party. The children's previous frolics had made the place a joyful mess, which now had nothing joyful any more. Several calls to and from the U.N.C.L.E.'s HQ , separated by long minutes in waiting, had permitted to clarify some important points

First, the kidnapping attempt directed at Miguel was quite real; it had been witnessed by passers-by, whose intervention had allowed the boy to escape. Mr Waverly had some idea of the perpetrators' identity. Two Brazilian businessmen of German origin, with big investments in the drug industry, had attended the medical symposium organised by U.N.C.L.E. about the epidemics and had left the place before the end, just after the second speech of the Uruguayan scientist. Further investigations had discovered they were among the former associates of Hartmann. It appeared they had taken the same train he was in and had followed him all the way in a rented car down to the accident's place.

"I knew that!" Hartmann exclaimed triumphantly, "I was certain they wouldn't take my refusal quietly."

"Which refusal?" Solo asked abruptly.

"Well, the refusal I opposed them of developing a mortal virus, ethnically targeted at the 'Indios della Silva'."

The Morrisons, who until then had kept silent, in stunned astonishment after they had been summarily informed, both burst in horrified exclamations.

"Admirable indeed! How noble from you! So true to your well famed humanism!" It was futile but Napoleon couldn't help the mockery.

"Your petty sarcasms don't touch me" his opponent replied with gravity, "I am a physician, a doctor of medicine; I never killed anybody."

"No, only kidnapped children after their parents had been murdered."

"I very probably saved their lives," Hartmann retorted, before stopping abruptly. He frowned deeply, realising a little too late that he had just admitted what he had always denied.

"Napoleon!" Florence scolded, "You are wasting a precious time while Paul is in danger." She laid a protective arm around her son's shoulders. He stared at her, looking nonplussed. The recent events seemed to have awakened long asleep, unsuspected maternal feelings in her. Napoleon considered this touching scene with a slightly impatient irony. He noticed that Carolyn was looking away to hide her unbelieving little smile. That reaction from so young a child saddened him briefly.

"There's been no time lost," he corrected, "the whole region has been sealed off by the Federal and U.N.C.L.E's forces soon after my first call. If the regular emergency procedures have been observed, then they're encircled now."

"Unless they have a helicopter," suggested Flo sombrely.

"Come on, Flo, they couldn't guess they'd need it; they left the conference unexpectedly. They simply followed Hartmann; didn't know where it would lead them." He added with an unmitigated satisfaction: "The copters are on our side, and with the better weather conditions we've now, they will be able to fly over the whole zone."

"What do we do now?" Miguel asked anxiously.

"You? Nothing. What would you do?"

"I want to go with you."

"No way, you stay here with the other kids."

"I'm not a kid!" Miguel was indignant, " I can help, and I want to help."

"That's not a job for amateurs," replied Solo, more harshly than he meant to. Inaction had been gnawing at him since his last mission's dubious issue and he was yearning to do something, anything effective, and feel in control again.

He had little to wait. A few minutes later the familiar bip-bip rang and he heard Waverly's voice. "Mister Solo? Be ready to take the lead of the team I've sent to you. The abductors' vehicle has been located on the road to Cape May. One of our helicopters is on its way to pick you up within minutes, with three agents aboard, while the other one keeps on its watch."

"And what about Illya and the kid? Were they seen?" He hadn't dared to say 'My son', though of course Waverly had been informed about the boy's identity since his first call.

"I haven't been given notice of it. You'll get an update from Mr Hernandez, who is maintaining permanent contact with the second team.

The transmission was cut off.

Then, Florence took over : "I'm going with you! I'm responsible for Paul before his grand-parents."

Napoleon lost his patience. " That's enough, you two! I take neither of you and that's final."

A new call from the helicopter spared him more argument. The choice of the landing place was no problem: the flat ground closest to the Morrisson's house was the wide lawn behind the rose garden. The snow coverage wasn't thick enough to hinder the manoeuvre; they just had to avoid the small pond, partly frozen already.

Only minutes later, three heavily armed men got out of a big aircraft, marked with the familiar U.N.C.L.E. logo. They moved quickly towards Solo, looking vaguely surprised by the unusual welcome wagon, children and dog ahead.

Instantly Napoleon felt on safe ground again. The three agents, among the best of the teams he had under his command, were well known of him: Juan Salvador Hernandez, a brisk and stocky Porto-Rican, Dan "Stalker" Longhorn, an ex miner from Montana, and Tony Ponto-Bruscelli, a pure Brooklyn product.

Hernandez didn't waste time. His report, plain and concise, held all the necessary information: the abductors' vehicle, a van with two men in the cabin, had been spotted on a desert road by the other team, not long after the alert had been given, but soon lost of sight in the sudden snow squalls that had followed the brief lull. The storm was threatening to endanger the observers' aircraft, which had been forced to land on a field, much too remote to allow an immediate intervention. From the tracks they had themselves seen later, the vehicle seemed to be heading for the coast.

"Quite logical" Hartmann interfered with his usual impudence," there is no other practicable way out; in the hinterland the roads are desert because of the weather and so, easy to control. Only the sea is open to them now. But if the sea-ports authorities have been alerted in due time, the arrivals and departures are under watch." - "Hopefully," he added, sarcastically."

"The still ships and the docks too must be inspected," Solo added, not bothering to note the other's intervention "and we've to consider the sector's rich in warehouses and hangars of all kinds, a lot of them not so well guarded at night, with easy to break-in accesses. They must be searched, what about the legalities?"

"Done!" Hernandez answered proudly. "I asked Waverly about that as soon as I was informed of the direction taken by our target. All is in the UNCLE lawyers' hands now."

"Good." Solo was thinking aloud. "I take that for a first move we can discard the private houses though a lot are unoccupied in this season; these men aren't fools: they know the area is going to be searched and they would be trapped like rats in there. I'd bet for a boat in the far end of the harbour, or maybe some shed in the vicinity, where they could wait for a boat, in the case they have an accomplice in the place."

"What?" Flo wondered. "You just said their action was improvised."

"It was in no way improvised," Hartmann cut in for the second time, "They've jumped to the occasion at the conference, but they were intending to take hold of me for a long time, a very long time indeed. And I think I know why they now want to catch Miguel too. I have my idea thereupon. We'll see soon if I'm right."

"But they had no time to organize anything since they didn't know your destination, that's what I meant," Flo explained with some annoyance, "seems they followed you by train. How could they have communicated with an accomplice?"

"They could have left a third man in town and kept in contact with him through a RT." Hartmann was nothing if not obstinate.

Although he found the man's peremptory tone perfectly loathsome, Solo couldn't deny the logic of his reasoning. That was the only possible explanation for the latest events. Men such as Hartmann's former associates weren't amateurs; they wouldn't have rushed into a hurried, doomed-to-fail operation blindly. However he abstained from uttering his thought aloud.

"Now is not the time to elaborate hypotheses, just have a last check with the second team and we'll get to them. Taking off in five minutes."

"I'll go with you," repeated Hartmann."

"Certainly not," Solo replied.

The other man sneered. "I am very afraid you cannot do without me. I am the only one who can talk to them. They want **me; **me and Miguel; we're the only reason they bothered to take hostages. You won't have to track them for too long: they'll reach for a contact themselves." He had recovered all of his morgue. "You're blinded by your worry about your partner's and the kid's fate but **they** don't care; their prisoners are simply a means to an end: a swap, that is. If they had succeeded in snatching us on the road, the little "Indio" and me, they would be far away at this moment. But they have a deal to set; that's why we have a good chance of taking hold of them eventually." His voice sounded triumphant. "But to achieve that, I repeat, you need me."

Napoleon bit his lip. For a short while, too focused on the threats to his son's life, not to mention Illya's, he had lost sight of the situation as a whole. He flinched inwardly. Self-doubt wasn't a familiar state of mind to him. But since his fateful failure in Uruguay, his ever-friendly luck seemed to have deserted him. He still hadn't recovered fully from the sense of guilt and helplessness he had felt back then. He had to overcome this weakness and soon: Paul's and Illya's life were at stake.

"Alright, you can come with us."

"Me too," Florence insisted with a persistence that neared provocation.

"No," Solo repeated firmly, and he turned round. Leaving her to the good care of the Morrissons, he strode away towards his team.

Miguel watched the engine taking off with melancholy, wishing he could be aboard, and not only to assuage his old kink for helicopters. Suddenly he felt very lonely. However it didn't take him long to realise the flaming red-haired woman had a certain facility in Spanish while the Morrissons, as ethnologists and linguists, specialised in the native cultures of South America, were perfectly fluent in this language. They had to get to know each other though. His hosts, still in shock from the recent events, needed to understand what was happening to them; so that the rest of the night, after the children had been, with utmost difficulties, put to bed, was spent for the adults in exchanges of information and feverish speculations about the possible outcomes of this affair.

Meanwhile, now flying aboard the biggest U.N.C.L.E. engine, in close connection with the watch team, Solo was trying to work out a strategy. The sky was clearing again and the second team had spotted the abductors' van, dumped in a ditch, not far from the place where they had last lost sight of it in the storm. The tracks of another vehicle were visible nearby. They had led the observers to the neighbourhood of the nearest harbour, as Solo had rightly guessed. So, there really had been a third man, at the least, and it was confirmed the enemy had means to communicate.

Tony took off his headphones. There were speakers in the cockpit but the surrounding noise didn't allow them to hear the transmission, faint and broken as it was. "It was just Nelson on line again; says most of the harbour's warehouses and sheds have been searched already, with the help of the district police; with no result so far."

"Eh, well done, the local cops!", Stalker exclaimed, "no time wasted with them."

"They'll carry on searching for a while," Tony went on, "to be sure nothing has been overlooked, but Nelson thinks the remaining buildings have no value as a place of refuge: they're isolated, as far from the harbour as from the railway station."

"Yes," Solo agreed, "these are no desperadoes ready to fight some Fort Alamo heroic fling, but purposeful businessmen. They must have secured a proper exit for themselves."

"Anyway," commented Hernandez, "they must be aware that no shed or warehouse, even vacant, can be safely used as a shelter more than a few hours in their current predicament, it could only be for a short halt while waiting for a convenient means of transportation; not a 'copter since they're in town now: they're on a boat or on the point of getting aboard."

"Exactly my point," Hartmann interfered again, still uninvited but unfazed, "in my opinion, they're now on some fishing boat 'en route' for Brazil or any other South-American destination, probably already outside the territorial waters."

Solo ignored the interruption. "Nelson must have been in touch with the port authorities. What has he heard from them?"

"He said nothing about it," Tony answered, "but we've to wait a little, I'm afraid; They have been officially required only half an hour ago." Solo frowned. "Why weren't both requests made at the same time?"

"I didn't think of it when I called Waverly the first time. And that's a move I have no power to make on my own." Hernandez spoke warily.

"Don't feel too bad about it, I'd have assumed we could trust Waverly on this myself," Solo said with an uncharacteristic lapse of loyalty, "it was pretty obvious since the beginning they would be heading towards the sea."

"As I told you," snapped Hartmann.

"Wasn't so obvious at the time." Hernandez looked more and more embarrassed in spite of Solo's appeasements. "Some shelter in town seemed more likely to me. Anyway, I called the Port services as soon as the van's direction had been confirmed by Nelson and they weren't on alert yet."

"You said they are now."

"Yes, after my call** they** asked the Governor's office for instructions. Which themselves contacted U.N.C.L.E and the necessary measures were arrested between them; at least that was what I was told by Waverly's secretary when I called the second time, just before we landed."

That didn't bode well. Solo stifled a groan, discarding a sudden hunch of impending disaster.

Hernandez sounded apologetic. "Can't say if they were effective immediately; you know: blocking a few roads and searching some buildings is one thing; shutting down a sea-port is quite another one. Such a decision has to be taken at State level and involves several administrative parties."

"Waverly has clout enough to boost the proceedings." Regarding that Napoleon was genuinely trustful. "The delay since your first call is, what? One, two hours? That's not much if they've to prepare for a long journey. We may still catch our birds in the nest." Solo spoke with more hope than he felt. And Hartmann, again, expressed his own hidden fears:

"Not a chance; everything has been prepared in advance, for days, not hours, probably as soon as the conference had been advertised, except of course **I** was the only designated target then and they couldn't guess we were going to make things so much easier for them by taking precisely the direction of their safe place."

The coincidence was a little too much for Hernandez. "Why Cape May?"

"Well, one of the biggest consortium associates, which I happened to meet years ago for business, a New-Yorker, used to sail in the region."

"You couldn't tell us that earlier?" Solo and Hernandez had spoken at the same time.

"I just recalled the fact a few minutes ago," Hartmann retorted, "and you kept on trying to silence me, remember?" He sneered. "You won't catch them; they'll set the time and place for the meeting."

That was beginning to look only too likely. In spite of all his reservations, Napoleon was obliged to admit the damned German was probably right.

The landing took place in the far outskirts of the town, on a broad expanse of golf lawns, without much difficulty. A sufficient marking with beacons had been set by the locals. Solo was hailed by the team's leader. Nelson Gideon Clark, a tall black man born thirty years ago in a small town in Alabama, had a peculiarly dreadful handshake. Waverly had recruited this former civil rights militant, just out of jail after a brightly organized riot had reduced the town-hall building to ashes and rubble. Since then, he had found inside U.N.C.L.E, section two, a more constructive way of assuaging his sense of Justice. He was assisted by his partner, Konrad Heyder, an Austrian, and the British pilot, Miranda Driscoll.

As he used to do, Nelson attacked before being called out: "What's going on with the authorities? What's Waverly doing? The harbour's exits have just been closed minutes ago. Several boats have slipped through earlier tonight without being controlled. They must be far away in the open sea now!"

"You see? They've fled; I knew they would." triumphed Hartmann. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, they'll get in touch; they want us: me and Miguel. There's no way they're going to vanish into the blue with their hostages, without attempting a swap."

Solo got a grip on himself. "Hope you're right," and, addressing Nelson, "is it certain any exit other than the sea might be discarded?"

"Absolutely. I've been kept informed of every move by the local police and our men out in the field: every spot that could be used as a shelter has been thoroughly searched; no trace of intrusion, nothing. Our birds had flown."

Which was confirmed not long afterwards by a call from Waverly. U.N.C.L.E had actually been contacted by the abductors, through the medical conference's telephone number, the only one they could have got to know. The call, too short to be precisely located, appeared to come from some place in town or in the countryside nearby, most likely made by the third man, who himself was communicating with his accomplices at sea through a radio transmitter. And yes, they wanted an exchange: the U.N.C.L.E agent and the boy for Hartmann and the young Indian, as the scientist had repeatedly declared.

Saying that Waverly was not pleased was the epitome of understatements. U.N.C.L.E's moral authority and technical competence had been compromised, first by a security leak in the conference's organisation, then by the endangering of an U.N.O diplomat, the whole mess being directly related to his most senior agents' private life. The old gentleman's conclusion was brief but scathing: "You were supposed to be my best team, you and Kuryakin; I wonder how things would have turned out if you weren't."

Solo wisely avoided mentioning the delay in asking for the harbour to be shut down. He had no doubt that Waverley was aware of it and this omission, whether from him or the U.N.C.L.E's lawyers, was probably the main cause of his wrath.

"You'll be called soon by those men; I had to award them a special radio channel, the last one available to your communicator."

Strangely, it sounded like the ultimate humiliation.


End file.
